Such a Simple Case
by Beth Einspanier
Summary: Holmes finds himself puzzling over a string of burglaries... and over the victim of one of them. [FINISHED!] R
1. Prologue

[Untitled]  
by Beth Einspanier  
  
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle and are used without permission. It's would be cool if they were mine, but they're not. All other characters and the story chronicled herein are mine. All Rights Reserved.  
  
Author's Note: Okay, I got a pretty warm reception to the mysterious woman in my earlier Holmes-fic, "Chance Encounter". Who is she? When can we meet her again? Is a romance in the works? This is, as before, a Holmes-narrated fic, and I hope it answers some of those questions. Enjoy!  
  
*****  
  
It has frequently amazed my dear friend, informal biographer, and partner in investigation, Dr. John Watson, that the most minor and diverse clues are often different elements of a single problem. Of course, if every mystery in London presented itself in a complete and coherent manner from the start, consulting detectives like myself would not be needed. Those who have followed the adventures Watson has had published in the Strand know, however, that no problem is as it first appears, and the most apparently unrelated elements may in fact be the most intimate bedfellows.  
  
Of course, it takes a certain mind to see the patterns in the chaos. A long-running story in the Times and a recently lost pocket-watch comprised but two pieces of a puzzle that fell into my lap one June...  
  
*****  
  
End Part 1. 


	2. An Obvious Trifle

Disclaimer: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
I dimly heard Watson from one corner of my attention, the remainder being fixed on the evening edition of the London Times. A heavy rain hissed down on London outside the window of the sitting room, deftly reflecting my opinion of the annoying lull that inevitably occurs between cases, in one of which I now found myself. My mind was whirring with nervous energy, and I had no place to apply it - Watson had, through sheer persistence, broken me of my former habit of cocaine usage during these lulls, so I quite naturally sought other sources of stimulation. As such, I had been following a story about a series of break-ins that had been plaguing one of the higher-class neighbourhoods of London. In each, the modus operandi was the same: No forced entry, no obvious clues, no suspects. I expected Lestrade would be asking my help before too long, but in the meantime...  
  
"I don't know how I could have lost it," Watson lamented. The pocket of his waistcoat where he usually kept his watch was turned out, and the loop of watch-chain was absent. I was really not in the mood for such an obvious trifle. I roughly folded the newspaper and twisted round in the wicker chair to face him properly.  
  
"I trust you have reported your lost pocket-watch to the authorities?" I queried, then turned back and re-opened the paper.  
  
"I didn't think you were even listening," he admitted, sounding a bit calmer but more than a little amazed.  
  
"You are ten feet away from me, and you have been carrying on for the past half-hour. I daresay I had no choice in the matter."  
  
"Well, to answer your question: yes, I did report it to Scotland Yard, since I thought it might have been a pick-pocket, but they wouldn't give me any assurances they'd ever find it. You know how Lestrade is."  
  
"Yes," I replied dryly, "I know exactly how Lestrade is." I returned my attention to the article, of which I had read the fourth sentence seventeen times since Watson came home. As I started it for the eighteenth time:  
  
"It was a gift, you know. From my wife, before she passed. It was monogrammed and everything."  
  
I glanced sideways in Watson's general direction, knowing now that I probably wouldn't ever finish this article until I agreed to hunt down his watch, or until he went to bed, whichever came first. I crumpled the paper in the general direction of closed and tossed it aside, then settled back in the wicker chair and steepled my fingers.  
  
"Criminal masterminds run loose in this city," I muttered, "and new crimes are committed everyday by men who believe that justice cannot touch them. Wickedness and corruption hang over London like a fog... but the most engaging case to reach my attention is a stolen pocket-watch." All the same, that Watson was my friend obliged me to at least make a token effort to help. Aloud I said: "Where and when do you last remember having your watch, Watson?"  
  
He rubbed his moustache in thought. "It was a bit past eleven," he said finally, "Yes - ten past. I remember because I glanced at it on my way home from seeing a patient. But I put it right back," he added pointedly, "I know I didn't leave it anywhere."  
  
I made a noncommittal noise of reassurance of his continuing power of memory. "Did anything else notable happen during the - what is it, three miles? - walk home?" I had, of course, noticed the road grime on his boots and trouser-cuffs... about three miles' worth, give or take.  
  
After another thoughtful silence, he answered in the negative.  
  
"Did anyone attempt to shadow you?"  
  
"Not that I saw."  
  
"Did anyone jostle you or bump into you?"  
  
"N-- wait. There was one gentleman... It had started to rain, and I was hurrying for cover, when I collided with someone coming the other way."  
  
"Forcefully?"  
  
"We were both running. The impact nearly knocked me to the ground. He was very polite about it, though, and he apologised and said that he was late to catch a train. Then he glanced at his watch and hurried off through the rain."  
  
My eyes, which had been half-closed during his description, opened fully. "What did he look like?"  
  
"I didn't see his face very well, since I was more concerned with getting to a dry place than with memorising details. But I do know that he was built like a stone wall."  
  
I agreed; Watson himself is not a small man, and it would take some considerable force to knock him off-balance as he described.  
  
"What did the watch look like?"  
  
"My watch? Holmes, you've seen--"  
  
"Not your watch. His watch - what did it look like?" "It was gold, with a thin watch-chain. I did notice that the end of the chain had come loose in the collision."  
  
"Indeed. Watson, your description of his watch sounds remarkably similar to your own watch."  
  
There was a brief silence as he digested this; I preferred letting him try to figure out minor puzzles such as this.  
  
"Oh no," he said, mournfully, at last.  
  
"I'm sorry, Watson," I said honestly, "You couldn't have known that a forceful collision with a victim is one of the stealthier methods used by pick-pockets. It masks the warning sensation of you being relieved of your valuables."  
  
He sank onto the couch sadly.  
  
"On the bright side, I doubt a common criminal will be able to get very far with a gold pocket-watch monogrammed with 'J. H. W.', particularly if his name does not match the initials."  
  
I did not add that by the time the police found the first miscreant, the watch would undoubtably have passed through the hands of a long chain of recipients by theft, robbery, murder, or fencing.  
  
As it happened, this could not have been further from the truth.  
  
*****  
  
End Part 2 


	3. Lost and Found

Disclaimer: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
Two days after this minor puzzle, which to its credit had sufficiently stimulated my brain to bring me slightly out of my lethargy, I noted one of Lestrade's men slogging through the rain - which had not stopped since Watson lost his watch - coming up the walk towards 221 Baker street.  
  
"Ah," I remarked lightly to Watson, "It seems I was mistaken about Scotland Yard's dedication to your pocket-watch."  
  
Watson brightened up immediately - he had till now been mourning his timepiece - and there was a spark of hope in his eyes as Mrs. Hudson showed the visitor up to our door.  
  
"Ah, good afternoon, Gregson," I said as I opened the door, "What brings you here in such hideous weather?"  
  
"Two things, mainly," said he.  
  
"Then perhaps you would like to sit and dry yourself while you talk?" I offered.  
  
Gregson looked a bit pained then as he declined either to sit or to dry his overcoat by the fire, and the cordiality seemed to evaporate from the sitting room as he turned to Watson.  
  
"We found your watch," Gregson announced, though the manner in which this statement was delivered understandably confused my friend.  
  
"Where did you find it?" Watson asked, with due caution, "I trust you found it in good condition?"  
  
"It's fine," Gregson said, "But the thing is, we found it at the scene of the latest burglary."  
  
Watson looked and I felt as though we'd both been slapped.  
  
"So, you understand we need to ask you a few questions, Doctor," Gregson continued, all the while looking as though he were attempting to pass a particularly large and jagged gallstone, "It's all a matter of procedure. Nothing against you personally."  
  
Watson looked at me helplessly, then turned back to Gregson. "I'm sure this is all a big mistake," Watson said to me, "I shouldn't be very long, Holmes. You'll see."  
  
He grabbed an overcoat from the coatrack _en_passe_ as he and Gregson left. My mind was racing, so it was only a matter of seconds before I realised that Watson had grabbed my overcoat by mistake. I grabbed his overcoat and was almost at the door, meaning to call them back and return Watson's overcoat, when I noticed something sparkle in the coat pocket. I stopped short by the door, and felt around in the pocket, pulling out what I found there.  
  
It was a delicate diamond bracelet.  
  
***** End Part 3. 


	4. We Meet Again For the First Time

Disclaimer: See Part 1.  
  
Author's note: Sorry this has taken so long. I haven't had much time to write of late, mainly due to preparations for a convention In the fall. I'll get my rear in gear soon, though, I promise. In the meantime, on with the show.  
  
*****  
  
During the course of my friendship with Watson, I have frequently cautioned him against the dangers of forming theories prematurely, before one has all the facts and evidence. When one simply guesses, without having all the pieces of the puzzle, any further evidence is often tainted by the theory, and distorted to fit the theory rather than the theory altered to fit the evidence. This backwards form of criminal investigation, which even today I continue to see with distressing frequency, often leads to the wrong man being convicted, while the true culprit walks free.  
  
I knew that the lost and found pocket-watch and the diamond bracelet were only pieces of the overall picture. I needed to find the rest of the pieces if I was to understand how the two I had were related.  
  
I decided then that Lestrade had no pressing reason to see the bracelet; on the other hand, I had my own, quite pressing reasons to see the scene of the crime.  
  
I hung Watson's coat back on the coat-rack and picked up that morning's edition of the Times, opening it to the article that first reported the most recent burglary. I traced my finger down the column until I found the information that I needed to proceed with my own investigation - the name of the recent victim.  
  
That evening I sent my calling card to one Mr. Edmund Cartwright, requesting permission to make my own investigation into the break-in at his estate.  
  
The next morning's reply was a curt note by post:  
  
Dear Mr. Holmes,  
  
Come if you must. The inspector says they already have a suspect in custody, but it seems you have a fan here.  
  
Edmund Cartwright  
  
Hmph. I seemed to have fans everywhere, ever since Watson started publishing his accounts of our cases. However, I was already committed to this case, come what may, especially if this "suspect" was indeed Watson.  
  
***** The Cartwright estate possessed an aura of dignified understatement. It was a venerable, well-kept, white three-storey residence, crawling with tendrils of artfully tamed ivy. The topmost storey possessed balconies from which one might enjoy a picturesque view of some of the more cosmopolitan rooftops of London.  
  
The butler, a kindly-looking man whose silver hair announced him to be at least in his late fifties or early sixties, answered to my knock on the door, and showed me to the parlour where the master of the house waited.  
  
As I entered, he stood up from the wingbacked chair in which he had been sitting, and extended his hand to me. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume?"  
  
Mr. Edmund Cartwright appeared to be in his late forties, though his face was rather more worn than most men his age and his mousy hair was shot with gray. A quick glance around the room showed me several photographs, carefully preserved, of a lovely young woman. The woman struck an odd chord of familiarity in my mind; however, the photographs appeared to be at least ten or fifteen years old, and I wondered why new pictures had not replaced the old... unless the subject of the pictures was since deceased.  
  
"My condolences for your loss," I said to Mr. Cartwright, after we had exchanged greetings and pleasantries. He looked startled until I pointed out the photos.  
  
"Ah, yes," he said sadly, "My wife, Laura. Those pictures are all I have left of her... besides Emily."  
  
"Your daughter," I concluded.  
  
"Yes," he replied, "Em got most of her personality from her mother, I fear."  
  
"You fear?"  
  
Mr. Cartwright smiled, the slightly weary and indulgent smile of a long- suffering parent. "You'll see." He turned to the butler. "Leopold, go fetch Emily here to greet our guest."  
  
"And what if she will not be fetched?" the butler asked, apparently used to such a reaction.  
  
"Then you tell her that that Baker Street detective is here as she requested and if she won't come I'll send him away."  
  
"Yes, sir." Leopold departed.  
  
I have, in my career, been called many things by many people, an amusing proportion of which are quite unprintable, but "that Baker Street detective" was a new one; it was, of course, quite accurate, but the tone made the combination of residence and occupation seem almost as exalted as scavenging from dumpsters. All the same, I decided not to pursue the point. "Am I to understand that you do not believe I can help?" I asked instead.  
  
"The investigators said they already had someone in custody," he replied, "so I don't know if you'll be able to find anything new."  
  
"I prefer to form my own theories and opinions about cases," I said, "rather than rely upon those already formed by others."  
  
Just then Leopold returned, followed by a young woman, whom I supposed was the aforementioned daughter, clad in a dress that was a shade of metallic green usually found on ruby-throated hummingbirds. This time the sense of familiarity was stronger - the molasses-brown hair, the bright, intelligent eyes...  
  
"Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Cartwright, "This is my daughter, Emily Cartwright. Emily, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes." She and I clasped hands briefly.  
  
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "again."  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 4, 


	5. Just the Facts, Ma'am

Disclaimer: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
Watson, ever the romantic, has frequently expressed his dismay at my apparent immunity to the charms of the fairer sex, especially in those cases brought to our mutual attention by a particularly attractive specimen of her gender. I have found through my observations the truth in the statement that "the female of the species is deadlier than the male," and can count no fewer than seventeen cases offhand (and probably more than that exist in my files) which began with the temptations of the flesh gaining undeserved control over the checks and balances of the mind.  
  
That being said, I will be the first to admit (though not necessarily to Watson) that Miss Emily Cartwright had caught my interest during our first meeting, simply because she was a puzzle, an oddity - not for any emotional reasons that Watson would doubtless apply.  
  
It was for this reason that I felt a small thrill when I saw her again.  
  
All the same, I had no time for social nuances during a case, so I stowed those thoughts away for the time being, just in time to attend to Mr. Cartwright's question:  
  
"You've met before?" he asked us.  
  
"Once," I replied, "in passing. We had a very engaging conversation as she finished her tea over the latest issue of the Strand."  
  
"Was Leopold with you?" he asked of his daughter.  
  
"Father," Miss Cartwright groaned, "I'm not a child."  
  
"All the more reason for you not to go around unescorted like that!"  
  
"I can take care of myself, you know that."  
  
"Perhaps," I interjected diplomatically, trying to stave off a full-blown family argument, "Miss Cartwright and - Leopold was it? - could show me the scene of the crime?"  
  
"Of course," said Mr. Cartwright, still glowering at his daughter, "After all, that's why he's here, isn't it? Leopold?"  
  
"Certainly, sir," said the butler, then to us: "Follow me."  
  
*****  
  
Miss Cartwright's room was simply furnished. A canopy bed - which did not appear to have been slept in recently - sat perhaps a foot from the far wall, attended by its accompanying night-stand, and the sheer curtain which had been drawn at the far side of the bed partially obscured a small window with its shutters firmly closed and latched. Next to the window in the far corner was a bookcase filled with a number of volumes and knick-knacks. A walking-stick ornamented with a fox-head in bronze leaned against the side of the bookcase. To the left of the door was an oak wardrobe, and opposite the wardrobe was a vanity table - which had at one time been painted white - and mirror. An open, empty cherrywood jewelry box lined with dark green velvet sat near one end of the vanity table next to a pair of ladies' gloves, the key still in its lock.  
  
"Do you frequently leave the key in the lock of your jewelry box?"  
  
"No," Miss Cartwright replied as she crossed behind me and sat on the edge of her bed, "I usually keep the key in the drawer of my nightstand. I felt it best if I tried to keep the room as it was when I discovered my jewelry was missing."  
  
"That was a wise move," I said, "It preserves any trace evidence left behind. I expect you are sleeping in a guest room, then?" As I spoke, I inspected the jewelry box itself, noticing that there were no scratches on the soft brass plate of the lock, and in fact appeared to have been no attempt to force the lock at all; therefore whomever opened it found the key before making an attempt to do so.  
  
She nodded. "The police took the pocket-watch, though."  
  
"Yes," I said, "The watch. Where was the watch when it was discovered?"  
  
"That's the strange thing," she said, "It was on the vanity table next to the jewelry box."  
  
"Where the gloves are now?"  
  
"It was partially hidden under the gloves. I could scarcely have overlooked it."  
  
"Strange." I lifted the gloves and peered at the tabletop underneath. Had the watch been dropped carelessly, there would have been a mark in the paint where it struck the surface, especially on delicate paint like that which decorated the table. There was none.  
  
"And I knew it couldn't be my father's, so I examined it to see whose it might be."  
  
I wondered that she would be so level-headed at the loss of her jewelry. "Was the jewelry box open at this time?"  
  
She nodded. "I figured whomever left the watch might know where my jewelry went. The police, of course, snatched it up right away. They told me that when they found the owner of the watch, they would find the jewel thief."  
  
"You disagree?"  
  
"The watch was monogrammed with someone's initials. And it was gold - I could tell that right off, it was so heavy. Even if I were a jewel thief and fairly confident that whatever was in the box was worth more than the watch..."  
  
"... why leave something that could identify you, let alone in plain sight? Exactly my reasoning." It seemed to me that she had turned over this puzzle herself for some time. "But before we can answer the 'why' of the watch, we must answer the 'who' of the burglar. And in order to do that, I need to know the 'when' of the burglary. So, first of all, when did you first notice the loss?"  
  
"Two nights ago, when I was getting ready for my debutante."  
  
"You look a bit older than fifteen."  
  
"That's because I'm twenty. It's a long story."  
  
"I see. So, you were getting ready for your debutante...?" As I prepared to hear her account of that night, I searched in vain for a chair in which to sit and meditate, settling instead - gathering every ounce of male dignity - for the ruffle-festooned seat before the vanity table. As I sat, an exhalation of the mingled odours of feminine toilette puffed out. I tried not to bristle, though I knew I would probably still smell of perfume by the end of the interview. Instead I closed my eyes, leaned back uncomfortably against the edge of the vanity table, and concentrated on assimilating the facts of the case.  
  
"I had just finished with my bath and had just entered my room to get dressed."  
  
I accepted this point of reference with my usual objectivity. "When did you see the box previously? Was it closed?"  
  
"I saw it just before, when I was pinning up my hair for the bath. It was closed, and the key was in the nightstand."  
  
"How is the key kept in the nightstand? Is it hidden or in plain view?"  
  
"I generally keep it under a few silk pocket-handkerchiefs, but other than that it's easy to find."  
  
"But not very obvious. Was anyone else in your room?"  
  
"My governess was there, picking out my dress and telling me how pretty I'd look for the ball."  
  
"A governess?"  
  
"More like a tutor in the finer points of ladyhood, but she treats me like I'm a child. She can be so insufferable at times."  
  
I ignored her editorial for the time being. "Did anyone else have access to your room in your absence?"  
  
"Mainly the servants, but there were a lot of people about."  
  
"Like who?"  
  
"The guests were already arriving, for one. I think Father did that on purpose. He wanted me to have a dramatic entrance."  
  
"I expect you had one all the same. How many guests were there?"  
  
"Around three hundred all told, give or take fifty."  
  
"Anyone else?" Three hundred fifty guests could little be expected to feed and entertain themselves at such a gathering, after all.  
  
She picked up the thread of reasoning quickly. "There were caterers, of course, and people Father hired to decorate the hall. Later on there were musicians - a string quartet." She paused in thought. "And there were some delivery boys from the florist."  
  
I began to form a mental picture of the main hall of the manor as it might have looked that night. "What sort of decorations were there? Be as detailed as you can."  
  
"Well, there were curtains draped everywhere, mainly looped over the doorways... and enough flowers to decorate a funeral wake."  
  
"Where were the flowers?"  
  
"Well, there were bouquets in the corners of the hall and two centrepieces on the table... orchids. I always liked orchids." My eyes were still closed as I held the image of the decorated hall in my mind's eye; by the tone of her voice, I surmised that she was smiling at some fond memory. I had no time for fluffy sentiments, but I allowed her to enjoy the moment as I shifted my weight in a vain search for a gentler edge of the vanity table on which to rest the middle of my back.  
  
"What did you do when you discovered your loss?" I finally broke in when I felt the silence had continued long enough.  
  
"Well, first I got dressed. I wouldn't do to run about like a madwoman in my bathrobe, even over stolen jewelry."  
  
I opened my eyes then, and glanced over at her. She was wearing the ghost- smile with which she had favoured me at the cafe. I snorted softly.  
  
"Sensible." I banished the mental image she had just conjured. "So I expect you went looking for the culprit or culprits amongst those in the main hall?"  
  
"My father had everyone we could find gathered in the main hall, guests and servers alike."  
  
"That must have been a lot of people."  
  
"It's a big hall. Most of the guests were acquaintances of my father, or friends of friends. We questioned the guests who came earliest, along with the help, and we searched several people, but we never found out who took the jewelry or where it went afterwards."  
  
"Well," I said, reaching into my coat pocket and withdrawing the bracelet, "I believe this may be some help. I discovered it yesterday, and I believe it may be one of your lost items." I stood, wincing at the crick in my back from leaning against the vanity table for so long, and offered the bracelet to her.  
  
She took the bracelet wordlessly and looked at it for several minutes. Then she looked up at me and said the last thing I had expected her to say.  
  
"This isn't my bracelet."  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 5. 


	6. Such a Simple Case or, Open Mouth, Inser...

Disclaimer: See Part One.  
  
*****  
  
There was dead silence in the room for perhaps a full minute, broken only by the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway outside, the sound of Leopold trying to soundlessly clear a particularly stubborn blockage in his sinuses, and the feeling that I had just tripped over an erroneous conclusion and fallen flat on my face.  
  
"It's very pretty," she said finally, just as the silence was about to reach uncomfortable proportions. "Where did you find it?"  
  
"It was in the coat pocket of the current suspect," I summarised.  
  
"And the police don't have it because...?"  
  
"Fortune interceded. He grabbed the wrong coat on the way out."  
  
She was thoughtfully silent for a few moments. "Of all the people they might have accused," she said finally, "I wouldn't have expected Dr. Watson to be one of them. That was his watch, wasn't it?"  
  
I nodded soberly. Her reasoning was sound; the initials J. H. W. monogrammed on the watch-cover and my unsolicited interest alone would have proven a personal interest. Add to that the fact that I knew he had grabbed the wrong coat...  
  
"Well, if it's any consolation," she continued, "I didn't see him at the debutante."  
  
"I proves nothing, of course," I replied, "By your own account the guest list was extensive. Anyone - especially the thief - could go unnoticed." Besides which, I reflected, even I could not account for Watson's whereabouts on that evening, as he had stepped out for about three hours, from roughly five-fifteen to eight-thirty, and when I asked him what had summoned him out in such rotten weather he simply said he'd had some business to attend to, after which he retired to his room for the remainder of the evening.  
  
"So you believe he did it?" She looked incredulous.  
  
"I believe nothing of the sort at this point," I retorted, "I believe only in the facts of the case, of which we have far too few to form any conclusions." I stood, preparing to embark on the next stage of my investigation.  
  
"In that case," she replied, also standing, "I think we had better get to work at finding out who did this."  
  
I stopped halfway to the door and turned to look at her. "I do not wish your help in this matter," I said stiffly, "But thank you for offering."  
  
"We both have a stake in this case, Mr. Holmes," she replied, returning my look, "I wish my jewelry back, and you wish your friend exonerated for the crime. And a lot of people besides us wish to see justice done."  
  
"You know nothing of detectivework. You're--" I stopped myself, but there it was all the same.  
  
She frowned. "I'm what, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
"Nothing," I replied, on the off-chance that she would drop it. She folded her arms across her bosom and looked at me coldly. I turned back towards the door.  
  
"An amateur?" she pressed, "So are you, as far as employment goes. So what am I? Inexperienced?"  
  
So. She was going to force the issue, was she? I sighed. "The issue is not open to discussion, Miss Cartwright," I said calmly, "I will contact you as soon as I have heard anything about your stolen jewelry."  
  
I was nearly out the door when she asked one final question. "It's because I'm a woman, isn't it?"  
  
I stood there, bristling at her audacity and weighing several possible responses, most of which sounded like hollow excuses. Except for one.  
  
"Yes," I said simply, "It's because you're a woman. Are you satisfied now?"  
  
"No." Her voice was calm, but with an edge like a razor to it.  
  
"As I said, the matter is not open for discussion. Good-day, Miss Cartwright."  
  
The fact of the matter was that I knew this case would likely be dangerous, especially for a young lady, and I wished to investigate it alone without having to babysit her. It was mainly my own pride - and the certainty that she would argue even this point - that prohibited me from explaining any further.  
  
I was actually out in the hallway when she threw the bracelet at me. It was not heavy, but it caught me just so between the shoulder-blades so that the unexpected impact jolted a surprised exclamation from me. The door slammed shortly after.  
  
"She doesn't like being talked down to, Mr. Holmes," Leopold informed me from his post by the door as I stooped to retrieve the bracelet.  
  
"So I surmised," I replied, tucking the bauble securely into my pocket.  
  
"I blame her upbringing, personally," he added cryptically, but would say nothing else against her as he led me back to the sitting room.  
  
*****  
  
"I trust Emily did not give you too much trouble?" Mr. Cartwright smiled, though his attention was focused on a point over my shoulder. I turned in time to see Leopold's face finish rearranging itself into an expression of sober obedience. I deduced that whatever had been on the butler's face immediately prior had told his master all he needed to know about the tone of the interview.  
  
"Yes," I replied, "Your daughter has a keen eye for observation, all the same. She was very helpful to the investigation."  
  
"Is there anything else you require, then, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, preparing to show me to the door.  
  
"Yes," I said, and watched his mouth twitch slightly in annoyance, "I would like a list of the guests who had arrived early to the debutante, up to the time the jewelry was discovered missing, as well as a list of the companies hired in connexion with the ball."  
  
"You think one of my guests took Emily's jewelry?"  
  
"I must consider all the possibilities. Miss Cartwright tells me that there were a lot of people present that evening... any one of them could be the culprit."  
  
"Well, there is such a list... it was made out while we were trying to figure out who might have seen something."  
  
"Excellent. May I have a copy of this list for my own investigation?"  
  
"I'm sure Emily would be happy to let you see it." He paused. "She's been examining it herself during the last couple of evenings. I believe she fancies herself some sort of sleuth."  
  
"I see. So what you're telling me is that Miss Cartwright has the only copy of this list?"  
  
"Of course. We weren't expecting any outside help, let alone unsolicited."  
  
My mouth tightened slightly in annoyance. I hoped that Miss Cartwright would not decide to throw anything further at me when I returned to request this list.  
  
*****  
  
"Oh, you again," Miss Cartwright said, the very model of cordiality, when she answered my knock on her door. "I expect you're here because you found out I have something you want, after all. Isn't this a pretty problem?"  
  
"And I expect that you are not about to give over the list without a fight," I replied in a similar tone, resenting the idea of being forced into anything, let alone a partnership, regardless of how intelligent she had shown herself to be.  
  
"So here we are."  
  
"Yes. Here we are."  
  
The silence crawled.  
  
"All right," she said finally, "I'll give you the list, on one condition."  
  
"That being?"  
  
"We collaborate on this case."  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"As I said before, we each have a stake in this. You want to clear your friend's good name; I want my jewelry back."  
  
"You of all people know, through Watson's accounts, that I utilise rather unorthodox methods of detection."  
  
"I'm no prude."  
  
"I set a brutal pace."  
  
"It gets the job done, does it not?"  
  
"It could be dangerous."  
  
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were worried about me."  
  
I stiffened. "On the contrary, I believe you can take care of yourself."  
  
She smiled. "Then there's no problem."  
  
Checkmate.  
  
"If at any point I think that you cannot keep up with me," I said, "I will send you home. Is that understood?"  
  
"Quite," she said, "But I shall keep the list with me at all times. Is *that* understood?"  
  
"Understood," I growled.  
  
This had started out as such a simple case...  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 6. 


	7. Through the Grapevine and What We Found ...

Disclaimer: See Part One.  
  
*****  
  
Once the issue of our respective roles in the investigation was settled - though it was not quite the conclusion I had anticipated - Miss Cartwright went to her vanity table, opened the centre drawer, and withdrew the two sheets of foolscap on which were listed the names of the guests and the servicepeople whom we would consider potential witnesses to the burglary. I took the lists and glanced over them briefly.  
  
"It was a relatively simple matter to compile the guests' names," she told me, "Leopold was at the door with the guest list, and he checked off each family as they arrived with their invitations."  
  
"And once the loss was discovered, either you had him stop checking off names or somehow mark the later guests in a different way."  
  
"It was the latter. After all, guests were still arriving even then, and we had to account for everyone."  
  
"Of course. Did you get the names of the servicepeople as well?"  
  
"No. But you can see here that we have the addresses of the companies listed."  
  
I nodded. "I'll need to question everybody." This was, as always, no small feat, for there were a dozen family names listed, and of each family it seemed a suitor and his parents attended the debutante.  
  
"My father and I interviewed them at the scene," Miss Cartwright protested.  
  
"Of course, if you thought you had gotten every possible clue from them, the mystery would be solved and I would not be here," I replied calmly.  
  
Her mouth twisted in something between annoyance and amusement. "Very well, you have a point there. I just hope you're a patient man, for this will likely prove to be a very long day."  
  
"I am exactly as patient as I feel a given situation warrants," I shot back with a wry smile.  
  
She laughed. Only a sentimental fool would compare a woman's laughter to music, or the chiming of bells, or somesuch doggerel, but her laughter did sound much more pleasant than the icy tone she had used not long before.  
  
"However, you are correct," I added, "in that this will take some time - so if you are still determined to be an active part of this investigation I suggest we begin our expedition as soon as possible."  
  
In response, she went to the book-case to retrieve the fox-headed walking- stick propped there.  
  
"I'm ready when you are," she said as she took my elbow.  
  
*****  
  
Her father protested, of course, for many of the same reasons I had thought to dissuade Miss Cartwright from lending her aid to the case - in fact she herself forewarned me that he would likely 'have a litter of kittens' at the very idea - but as I had already learned, she was a spirited woman and would not be dissuaded without a fight.  
  
"Emily, I really wish you would just leave this to the police," he said, "That's what they get paid to do, after all."  
  
"Father, you know as well as anyone that I prefer not waiting for someone else to solve all my problems."  
  
"I *know* that, but they already have someone in custody."  
  
"We just want to make sure. After all, they'd look foolish if they charged the wrong man."  
  
"Yes, but going after burglars? This is hardly the proper--"  
  
"Daddy, you know how much you hate it when I go out unescorted?"  
  
"Yes?" He sounded cautious.  
  
She patted me on the shoulder. "Mr. Holmes will be my escort."  
  
Mr. Cartwright looked me up and down as though he had never seen me before in his life.  
  
"If anything happens," she continued, "He'll keep me safe."  
  
I felt strangely honoured by her apparent faith in me to do so. I knew as well as she did that these cases could be utterly unpredictable.  
  
"And I have my stick with me," she finished, brandishing her walking-stick. I kept my face neutral, in case this wasn't merely the bravado of a young woman trying to assert her independence.  
  
Mr Cartwright sighed. "Em," he said, a bit softer now, "I know you're a smart girl. I know you know your way around London by now. But please, *please* be careful. As for you," he turned his attention to me, "If she so much as breaks a nail on this little field trip..."  
  
"Daddy! He's trying to help us, remember? Besides, I'm sure you remember Michael?" Mr Cartwright grimaced at the name. "Yes... I remember young Michael. I hope you aren't planning to do anything like that again."  
  
In the end I gave Mr Cartwright my solemn promise to keep his daughter and her virtue intact, on pain of having my ears tied under my chin and my feet knotted at the back of my neck. My charge, of course, thought the whole thing was massively amusing.  
  
*****  
  
That day was spent mainly walking or in various hansom cabs, travelling throughout the affluent neighbourhoods of London in search of the witnesses to go with the names on the first leaf of our list. I was surprised to find that Miss Cartwright, encumbered though she likely was by the more private architecture of modern female fashion, kept up admirably - although I had the presence of mind to slacken my usual pace.  
  
One quality of human memory that I have frequently observed is its tendency to fixate on the most trifling aspects of a given scene. In this case, few people actually saw anything suspicious, but accusations and suspicions were freely offered for our consideration.  
  
Mrs Jameson, for example, was certain that Mrs Andrews had done it because she had always hated the late Mrs Cartwright, while Mrs Andrews was equally certain that the widowed Mrs Thatcher had done it because the late Mr Thatcher had left everything to an obscure Scottish mistress whom he had met while traveling on business.  
  
By the time we reached the Thatcher residence (which seemed well-maintained for the home of a poor widow) I decided to let Miss Cartwright handle the feminine intrigue while I interviewed her son James. James appeared inordinately disconcerted by the interview until, after a half-hour's worth of questioning, he finally admitted that he'd spent most of the interval in question in a broom closet with a maid without even waiting for the guest of honour to make her appearance and didn't wish his mother to find out about it - I supposed that he figured he would try to get in through the back door what he might not get in through the front. As Miss Cartwright and I compared notes, I learned that Mrs Thatcher, as one might expect, denied outright the story of the Scottish mistress as Mrs. Andrews' merely being catty, and put forth the theory that Mrs Matthews was the culprit because the latter tended to be nosy and had sticky fingers besides. Mrs Thatcher additionally contended that Mrs Matthews had been wearing a brooch to the debutante that had recently vanished out of Mrs Thatcher's own jewelry-box and would we be kind enough to get it back for her..  
  
"Well," said my investigative collaborator as we walked towards the Matthews estate, "we've certainly learned a lot this morning."  
  
"What we have learned," I replied, "Is that cordiality amongst these families does not extend beyond social engagements. I for one am surprised that they didn't kill each other outright at the debutante."  
  
"There were certainly enough hatpins among the women to make that possible," she said. "I think the only reason they were even in the same house together was so their sons could decide whether or not I was the sort of woman they'd like their sons to marry - rich, pretty, and brainless."  
  
I grunted diplomatically as I sifted through the facts and the gathered testimonies in the privacy of my mind. Meanwhile a small voice at the back of my head pointed out that two out of three was a good deal, and the third was a nonissue.  
  
It was not until we had finished with the Matthews interview that I learned anything of note. After fifteen minutes in the same room as Mr Matthews - who tended to talk as loudly as most people shouted and had very strong opinions about everything (I pitied the man who tried to disagree with him) - I had cultivated a small but insistent headache and excused myself, meaning to cut the interview short. Miss Cartwright met me at the door to the parlour where she had been talking with Mrs Matthews.  
  
"Ah," she said, "I was just about to come get you. Mrs Matthews has just told me something very interesting."  
  
"Not more gossip, I trust?" I asked as I followed her back to the parlour.  
  
"Tell him what you just told me," she said to Mrs Matthews.  
  
"It was nothing, really," said Mrs Matthews.  
  
"Every detail is important," I said.  
  
"Well, if you're sure. I saw one of the maids, young, with blonde hair, escorting a little boy - he couldn't have been more than five or six years old - to the washroom. Who brings their young children to a debutante?"  
  
"You saw them go to the washroom?" I pressed.  
  
"Well, I wanted to see whose child it was. I asked the maid while the lad was in there, and she said he was with one of the delivery people - his apprentice or somesuch. I figured everything was okay then, and I went back to the main hall."  
  
"How long before the burglary was discovered was this?"  
  
"About fifteen or twenty minutes before."  
  
"Thank you, Mrs Matthews. You've been very helpful."  
  
"More helpful than the last interviews," Miss Cartwright murmured as we left, "You look like you've caught a good lead." "I have."  
  
"The maid."  
  
"Precisely."  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 7. 


	8. Scientific Method

Disclaimer: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
"I trust you have some idea of which maid we should focus on?" I asked Miss Cartwright as we rode a hansom back to the Cartwright Estate.  
  
"There are three maids on staff who have blonde hair," she replied, "It should be a simple matter to find her."  
  
"But first, how does Mrs Matthews' testimony fit in with the timeframe we've already established? Does a gap of fifteen to twenty minutes allow enough time for you to leave your room, take your bath, and come back?"  
  
"I should say so. I was out of my room for perhaps a half hour. You're assuming, of course, that this child has anything to do with it."  
  
"I never assume anything. This is merely conjecture, and may or may not be part of the final solution."  
  
She leaned back in her seat with a sigh, and it was then that I noticed that our exertions that morning had taken their toll on her, though she did not appear to be a creature of an especially delicate constitution. I remembered our earlier agreement and wondered idly if she was merely being heroic in coming this far.  
  
"I expect we will be spending some time at the scene of the crime," I said mildly, "So you should have time to rest your feet. I expect they must hurt by now."  
  
Her gaze, which had been drifting out the window, returned to me. "Are you trying to be gallant?"  
  
"Perhaps I am."  
  
She favoured me with a smile. "We *have* been walking for most of the morning. Of course my feet hurt." I opened my mouth to propose that she wait in the parlour during the next stage of the investigation, but she overrode me. "But you're not getting rid of me that easily. By the time we get home they should be feeling better." She reached across and patted me reassuringly on the hand, and I half expected a spark to leap across as she touched me.  
  
*****  
  
The maid in question was named Lora, short for Loralee. She was a slender wisp of a girl of eighteen who probably hadn't been in the role of domestic for much longer than a year, since her hands had yet to develop the calluses and chapping that come from exposure to the detergents used in such work. She was painfully shy, which suited her role as the invisible servant quite well but our investigative purposes not at all.  
  
Eventually we learned (once Miss Cartwright assured her that she was not going to be arrested for borrowing some of the good tapers for her own use) that she had indeed been the one to take a small child to the washroom, and she waited outside the door until he was done. She did notice that it took him a very long time, as he had sought her out when it was nearly time for her break and she was impatient for him to finish. She did remember speaking with Mrs Matthews, and she confirmed that it had been twenty minutes before the theft was discovered.  
  
Bearing in mind that Miss Cartwright's room was on the second storey, I asked Lora to show us the specific washroom to which she had taken the boy. As the entire ground floor was occupied by the party, she reported, she took the child to a washroom on the first floor [a.n.: By the English system, the first floor would be the level just above the ground floor]. The washroom in question was unremarkable, save for a small window near the ceiling by the commode. It was eighteen inches high by two feet wide, and it hinged inwards. It was too small for an adult to fit through, of course, but a child...  
  
I took out my magnifying lens and examined the window-frame, balanced precariously as I was with my knees on the edge of the porcelain sink.  
  
"Don't worry," I heard Miss Cartwright say to Lora behind me, "He does this all the time, and I don't *think* he's mad."  
  
I smiled at her tongue-in-cheek affidavit of my sanity, just as my lens picked up a few textile fibers caught in the window-hinge. These I retrieved with an impressive feat of balance, a whispered prayer, and a pair of forceps, managing to tuck them in an envelope before my right knee lost its purchase and I dismounted ungracefully from the sink.  
  
"Someone has passed through this window," I announced to the two women, "By necessity, it was someone small, but they were quite agile indeed."  
  
"But, assuming it was the boy, where could he have gone from there?"  
  
"Out, of course," I replied, "And from there..." I paused. The only way the child could have made any progress from there would be if he climbed. And unless he was an insect, that meant... "Miss Cartwright, this is the rear wall of the house, correct?"  
  
She nodded. "It overlooks the back lawn." I saw the light flash in her eyes. "And that entire face is covered in ivy. He could have used that for purchase."  
  
"Only if it was strong enough to support his weight," I countered, "And there's only one way to test its strength."  
  
"As I said," Miss Cartwright said to Lora, "I don't *think* he's mad."  
  
*****  
  
One of the features that distinguished in my mind Miss Cartwright from all other members of her sex was her persistent use of cool logic in stressful situations, such as when she discovered the theft of her jewelry. I expect that most women would be hysterical at such a discovery, or at least they wouldn't have the presence of mind to take such an active part in the investigation.  
  
The unusual presence of reason was probably why she stayed firmly on the back lawn, holding my coat, while I clung to the ivy one-and-a-half storeys up the rear of the Cartwright estate in my shirtsleeves. Likewise, I was beginning to feel that I had proven the strength of the roots more than sufficient to bear the weight of a small child, by proving them reasonably capable of bearing a grown man of considerably greater weight.  
  
"I already told you the ivy is strong enough to support at least 130 pounds," she called up to me as I clung motionless for a moment to catch my breath. She sounded irritated.  
  
I had my own theory about how she calculated this figure, of the sort that would also account for her ability to leave the house unescorted. But scientific method did not allow one to simply take another's word for it. I kept my eyes on the white handkerchief that Lora had hung out of the washroom window and hoped I didn't try to put too much of my weight on a random patch of loose roots or crumbling masonry.  
  
As I drew level with the tiny window, I took care not to disturb any of the ivy immediately surrounding it (which made getting a close look fairly tricky), but instead examined the leaves themselves. During my own climb I observed that my passage tended to leave the foliage looking a bit abused, and after a bit of searching I found similar signs around the window. The trail of crushed foliage was clear once I knew what to look for, and it led up to the second floor, terminating at the window directly above the washroom.  
  
After a few more moments to rest (for my fingers were beginning to cramp), I followed the trail to its terminus and found myself looking into Miss Cartwright's bedroom. Through the sheer curtains I could see a woman moving about. She was perhaps in her forties, married at least once but likely widowed. I waited until she had hung a dress in Miss Cartwright's wardrobe before I rapped lightly at the windowpane and nearly gave the poor woman a coronary.  
  
"I believe," I said through the closed window, "I have discovered how the burglar gained entry into this room."  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 8. 


	9. A Little Time to Reflect

Disclaimer: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
To my utter lack of surprise, I had to remain on the window-ledge for about five minutes, trying to convince the woman to unlock the sash and let me in, before Miss Cartwright - after sprinting up three flights of stairs upon seeing my predicament, she told me later - entered her bedroom and let me in herself. By that time my hamstrings ached ferociously and after Miss Cartwright helped pull me in - her grip was strong enough but she had to brace one foot on the inner windowsill - my legs fairly collapsed from under me as I reached the edge of the bed.  
  
"Don't worry," she told the other woman, "He's fairly harmless. He's investigating the burglary."  
  
"It seems to me he's trying to repeat the burglary," the woman huffed, "Though I expect he's a friend of yours, Emily."  
  
Miss Cartwright smiled in the face of the other's suspicion. "Mrs. Weaver, may I introduce to you Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Jane Weaver, my tutor."  
  
"Do you always enter houses through young ladies' bedrooms?" Mrs. Weaver asked sharply.  
  
"I have my methods," I replied as Miss Cartwright returned my waistcoat and coat to me, "I am given to understand, Mrs. Weaver, that you were in here when Miss Cartwright departed for her bath the evening of the debutante?"  
  
"What are you implying?"  
  
I buttoned my waistcoat. "Merely answer truthfully."  
  
"Yes, I was here. I was getting Miss Cartwright's gown ready for the ball."  
  
"Did that include choosing matching jewelry?"  
  
"Of course. I'm in charge of making sure Miss Cartwright looks like a proper lady. And before you ask, no, I didn't steal any of it."  
  
"I didn't think you had. After all, Mr. Cartwright would not have hired you to tutor his daughter if he didn't trust you." I pulled on my coat. "Did you lock the jewelry box and put the key back in the drawer of the night-stand after you had finished?"  
  
"Yes, I always do."  
  
"And the window... was it locked then as I had found it just now?"  
  
"I know it was closed, because of the rain. I didn't have time to check the lock because of the ball... and besides, what sort of a lunatic tries to break in through the second-floor window, especially in the rain?" This she punctuated with a significant glance at me.  
  
"Thank you, Mrs. Weaver. Good day to you."  
  
"You were a bit abrupt with her, weren't you?" Miss Cartwright asked, after Mrs. Weaver left, "After all, you must have scared the life out of her when you knocked on the window."  
  
"You saw that, did you?"  
  
"I figured there had to be somebody inside or else you wouldn't have knocked. I trust you found out what you were looking for?"  
  
"Actually, I discovered several things while I was looking for only one. Whether they mean anything remains to be seen. And there are yet other questions that want answering."  
  
"So what do you plan to do now?"  
  
"I plan to go home."  
  
"You *what*?"  
  
"This has been a very fruitful day for the investigation. Now, I believe we both need time to rest, and to meditate on what we have discovered. I will call on you in the morning in order that we might look for this child, say, after breakfast?"  
  
"My father won't be happy about this."  
  
"I believe your father will be quite happy once we have recovered your jewelry."  
  
"So you think we're on to something?"  
  
"I am certain of it. But these things cannot be forced. Keep your notes with you, look over them, and we shall compare theories in the morning." I touched her reassuringly on the shoulder. "Try to get some rest."  
  
*****  
  
I settled back in the cab Leopold called for me (with a mere hint of overeagerness for me to be gone), resolving to meditate on the case between the Cartwright Estate and my own lair on Baker Street. To be sure, the very act of rifling a jewelry box two floors above a party, and possibly on the very same floor as the owner of the jewelry box, took patience, precision, and certainly chutzpah. But what of the watch?  
  
I closed my eyes and reviewed the known facts. The debutante is scheduled to begin at eight o'clock in the evening. At 7.15, Miss Cartwright leaves her room to have a bath before getting dressed for the ball, leaving her tutor, Mrs. Weaver, in the room to lay out what Miss Cartwright would wear, both clothing and jewelry. Mrs. Weaver, after doing so, locks the jewelry box and placed the key in its usual hiding-place in the night-stand, and then leaves the room. This leaves a window of opportunity from approximately 7.20 until Miss Cartwright returns at 7.45 in which the burglar enters Miss Cartwright's room and steals the jewelry. But did that same person also leave the watch? How did the watch get into his possession, and why did he leave it?  
  
At around 7.30, a maid escorts a small child to the lavatory. His role in this is as yet unknown. It is possible that he climbed from the lavatory window to the bedroom window directly above, and it is equally possible that he had the watch in his possession. However, according to Watson's account of the day he lost his watch, the pickpocket was a very large man, certainly too large to have fit through the window, and likely too conspicuous to slip into the bedroom by more conventional means.  
  
My reverie was broken by the sensation of the hansom slowing to a stop. I opened my eyes, climbed out, and paid the cabby. As I headed inside, I murmured a greeting to Mrs Hudson. I asked if she had heard anything of Watson, and she replied in the negative. I wasn't surprised, but at the same time I worried about him. What must he be thinking? What was happening to him? I sighed, passed a hand across my brow, and climbed the stairs to the study.  
  
I meditated further on the case for four hours, two pipes, and three chemical experiments, trying to fit the facts I currently had into a coherent picture. But of course it is difficult to solve a jigsaw puzzle that is still missing half the pieces. I will not bore the reader with a detailed catalogue of my thoughts that night, except to say that they eventually turned, with a patient inevitability, to the additional mystery of Miss Emily Cartwright herself.  
  
Miss Cartwright was a puzzle in her own right, one that yet defied all attempts at solution. Moreover, she was hot-tempered, incorrigible, precocious, fiery, capricious, stubborn, and apparently determined to drive her father to an early grave with her sheer defiance.  
  
I was looking forward to the morning.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 9. 


	10. Some Irregular Observations

Disclaimer: See Part One.  
  
Author's Note: Am I the only one who thinks it ironic that the more Holmes dwells on the negative traits of Miss Cartwright, the surer my readers are that he's absolutely mad about her? :-) Keep up the reviews!  
  
*****  
  
I arrived at the Cartwright Estate at precisely eight o'clock the following morning, having found, to Mrs. Hudson's dismay, my Stradivarius and a cup of coffee to be more rousing than the breakfast she had prepared. She in turn informed me that, while she was sure that many people would enjoy Paganini's "Queen of Sheba" first thing in the morning, she was not one of them.  
  
Leopold's glance of amusement and mild disapproval was, I concede, warranted, since I was dressed in the more threadbare, charity-bin fashion of the working-class district, where I planned for Miss Cartwright and I to take the day's investigations. The question was, of course, whether or not Miss Cartwright would wish to continue playing at being a detective once she learned she would have to leave the cosiness of the estate.  
  
"Good morning to you, Mr Holmes," Leopold said after a pause, "Miss Emily will receive you in the study."  
  
"Ah," I replied, "She is up and dressed already, then?"  
  
"I have not seen her this morning. The last I saw of her was last night, in the study. She was going over some notes and told me she expected to be there well into the night and not to have Mrs Weaver wait up for her."  
  
"I see. And that is when she made the aforementioned arrangements?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Follow me."  
  
Miss Cartwright's prediction, as it turned out, was not entirely inaccurate, as we both learned when Leopold opened the study door for me. Miss Cartwright was curled into an armchair near a small table bearing a scattering of papers on which she had recorded her notes, and a fountain pen. She was sound asleep, her face propped on one hand in such a way at the corner of her mouth was pushed upward into a half-smile. It appeared that she had intended to retire for the night sometime between the end of her studies and my arrival in the morning, as her hair was loose about her shoulders (I estimated it to be approximately waist-length) and she was clad (as far as I could tell) only in a white cotton night-dress and burgundy velveteen robe, with the front of the latter pulled close with secure modesty at the front near her bosom but falling slightly open at her drawn-up knees. Her feet were bare, but a pair of burgundy slippers lay on the floor in front of the chair.  
  
There was, as one might expect, an awkward pause. I delicately cleared my throat. "Please wake Miss Cartwright," I said to Leopold, "And inform her that I will meet her in the sitting room once she is clad in what she deems to be suitable clothing to investigate the locales listed on page two of her list."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
As I walked back to the sitting room, I hoped that the day's tone had not been set by that encounter.  
  
*****  
  
I had been waiting for less than half an hour, nibbling graciously at one of a trayful of tarts that Leopold had brought in, when a slightly-built young man tromped into the sitting room to join me. He wore a well-used frock-coat, a rumpled shirt, threadbare trousers, a cap pulled low over his eyes, and oversized boots. In fact, I thought as I studied him, everything he wore seemed two sizes too large for him, as though he had inherited his wardrobe from an older brother. But what was he doing here, of all places, and why did he have a walking-stick? Then I noted that the stick was adorned with a fox-head, and from there the rest fell into place.  
  
"Good morning, Miss Cartwright," I said, and the youth's hand froze halfway to grabbing a tart.  
  
"Good morning, Mr Holmes," Miss Cartwright (for so it turned out to be, with the luxurious hair I had seen earlier tucked away under her cap) said with a smile as she finally took the tart and sat back in the chair adjacent to mine, "I'm glad to see you're as sharp as ever at this hour."  
  
I smiled. "It is my business never to let my mind grow dull," I replied, "And though I saw no pictures of any older siblings from whom you might have inherited this costume, It was the same lack of siblings that led me to conclude that, though unlikely, it was probably you under there."  
  
"'Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,'" she quoted, "Very clever."  
  
"Then there was the walking-stick. It is quite distinctive, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
She laughed. "Of course you save the most obvious clues for last."  
  
"It is my way. Now that we have that out of the way," I said, switching to a more important topic, "we must consider our planned activities for today. I trust you still have the list?"  
  
She pulled the two lists, folded in quarters, from the inside pocket of her frock-coat and handed them to me. I unfolded them, set aside the partial guest list, and smoothed out the service list on my knee. There were four companies listed, along with their street addresses: a decorator, a caterer, a florist, and a delivery service.  
  
"Now," I said, peering at the list, "Were people from each of these present at the debutante when you discovered the theft?"  
  
"Let me think. There were four decorators, two caterers, and three deliverymen, if their uniforms meant anything."  
  
"And from the florist?"  
  
"I think the deliverymen brought the flower arrangements from the florist, and the decorators placed them around the hall."  
  
"Very well," I said, making a small 'x' by the florist, "So that actually leaves three places to check." I glanced over and noted her brow was furrowed in thought. "Something wrong?"  
  
"I'm still trying to figure out how they got the jewelry out. We searched everyone who came up to when I discovered the empty jewelry box, and we didn't find any of it."  
  
"I have a theory about that. Proving it requires that everything in the hall and in your room stay exactly as it is, no matter what."  
  
"After three days? The flowers are starting to get stale."  
  
"Yes. With any luck we shall have identified the culprits by this evening."  
  
"You know something, don't you?"  
  
"At this point, I know nothing for certain. And as *you* well know, Miss Cartwright, I never guess at half-formed theories."  
  
"Fine. But I still think you're being over-dramatic."  
  
"I appreciate your confidence in my omniscience, but the only one who would best be accused of over-dramatisation would be Watson with his creative writing skills."  
  
"All right," she conceded with a smile, "Let's go perform some frightfully dull reconnaissance, then."  
  
"A capital idea. And may I offer my compliments to your choice of wardrobe for today? It seems I may make a proper detective of you yet."  
  
She smiled. "Flatterer."  
  
*****  
  
"I expect," Miss Cartwright said as we dismounted from the cab, "That whomever is behind this has an ingenious way of making off with the loot, as well as storing it later." "A secret stash, yes," I replied as I settled my cap more firmly on my head, "It would, of course, be counterproductive to store ill-gotten treasure in plain sight."  
  
"And I'm willing to bet that the way to this stash would not be via the front door."  
  
I sighed, having already reached a similar conclusion. "On the other hand, we would not be welcome if we broke in."  
  
"Well, then, what do *you* suggest, great detective?"  
  
"I?" I smiled in the mischievous way that Watson knew by now and thoroughly dreaded. "I suggest not getting caught."  
  
She snorted. "Brilliant, Holmes."  
  
She stopped walking as we started to cross in front of our first destination, so abruptly that I kept on alone for a few steps. I turned back to see what was the matter, and I saw her studying the building which housed the catering business in question. It was two storeys tall, of a respectable red brick, and its business was indicated by a filigreed sign over the front door. As it served the more upper-class clientele, the building was well-kept - hardly the sort of place that one would expect to harbour a burglary ring, but one could never tell by outward appearances.  
  
"Well hullo, guvna!"  
  
Speaking of outward appearances...  
  
We both turned at the voice, which turned out to belong to Wiggins, the unofficial leader of my equally unofficial task force of street arabs, even less officially dubbed the Baker Street Irregulars.  
  
"Oi uz wond'rin' when ye'd get 'ere, Mr. 'Olmes," he continued, ambling up to us and apparently trying to discreetly identify the other "street urchin" beside me.  
  
"I'm happy to see you got my note, Wiggins," I said to him, "Are the others in place?"  
  
"Aye, that they are, and peekin' around the places you said, guv." He paused. "Er, who's this un? I know all the arabs around 'ere, but I don't know 'im."  
  
"There's a very good reason for that, Wiggins," I said to him, "May I introduce to you Miss Emily Cartwright, my current client."  
  
There was a startled pause from Wiggins, after which he snatched his cap off in a valiant - though comical - attempt at manners.  
  
"Sorry, Mr. 'Olmes. Really oughta show respect for your new lady friend. Er," he added as I started coughing, "She *is* a lady friend, roight?" "I'm filling in on this case," Miss Cartwright cut in diplomatically, "Since it seems Dr. Watson is unavailable."  
  
"Oh. Right." Wiggins, for whom abashment was merely a fancy term for what someone uses a cosh to give someone else in order to relieve them of their valuables, gave me a look that indicated he thought that this was merely a polite cover story for a more interesting truth.  
  
"In any case," I said sharply once the tickle in my throat had subsided, "I wish for one representative from each group to report to me immediately."  
  
"Righto, Mr. 'Olmes." All business once again, he clapped his cap back on his head, apparently so he could touch the brim of it to Miss Cartwright before he dashed off towards the alley alongside the caterers' to deliver my latest orders to the first group of scouts.  
  
"Charming lad," was Miss Cartwright's verdict once Wiggins was out of sight, "When were you going to tell me you already had surveillance set up? And for that matter, when exactly did you get a chance to make notes of the businesses?"  
  
"To answer your second question first, I didn't take notes of the second page. I merely committed them to memory when I looked at your lists. That, at least, isn't against the rules, I trust. As for your first question, I thought it would be safer and wiser not to run headlong into any place which may or may not be a pit of vipers, which it seemed you were perfectly ready to do. And of course the best surveillance is that which is unseen, or at least unnoticed, by the subjects. We should have a fairly accurate report of the comings and goings of the four locations in short order."  
  
"I thought we'd eliminated the florist."  
  
"Not necessarily. One should never dismiss a suspect without strong evidence in their favour."  
  
"Out of the mouths of babes, I suppose."  
  
"Quite so. Look there - here comes the first of our scouts now."  
  
I chose to wait until the four spokesmen had arrived, each from their respective locations, before I began to question them, to avoid having to repeat questions four times. Of course it seemed that the rumour of my "lady-friend" had spread like wildfire almost as fast as Wiggins could sprint, so we were both forced to endure the innocently speculative glances of the youths. Miss Cartwright appeared to think the whole situation was amusing.  
  
It was during these interviews that Miss Cartwright and I discovered something which at once complicated and simplified matters. It seemed (according to the various reports from the young scouts) that our own targets were not collected in one place, as I had hoped. The large man who had relieved Watson of his watch was employed at the delivery company, while the slender six-year-old girl we sought would be found earning an apprenticeship under one of the decorators.  
  
This had started out as such a simple case...  
  
*****  
  
End Part 10. 


	11. Caught Between a Rock and, Well,,,

Disclaimer: See Part 1  
  
*****  
  
"A girl?" I asked the urchin who had come from the decorators', "Are you quite sure about that?"  
  
"Well," replied the lad, "Either it were a girl wiv 'er 'air all chopped orf, or it were a boy in need of a trim. Dint 'ear 'er talk, so cain't say for sure."  
  
"And were you able to get the name of the deliveryman in question?"  
  
"Nosir, Mr 'Olmes. But he's the biggest bloke I ever seen."  
  
"Thank you. Go back to your posts and await further instructions." They scattered like leaves. "What is this world coming to," I murmured, "When one cannot tell boys from girls on sight." I caught the amused look Miss Cartwright shot me. "I'm sure you know what I mean, Miss Cartwright."  
  
"Of course," she said lightly, and dropped the subject in favor of one of less global importance, "The decorators' and the delivery service seem to be the two likeliest candidates for the stolen property to be stored until the thieves get rid of it. There's no telling how much we're looking for, though... unless of course you know of any fences."  
  
"I've met poisoners, blackmailers, and petty thieves during my career," I replied, "but I happen to know that the London underworld is too vast for two people to check by themselves, especially if we do not know what it is we seek."  
  
"You have a point there. So where to first: the decorators or the deliverymen?"  
  
"Just offhand, I should think the delivery service would be a more logical choice, since a place such as they would use as their base would be filled with crates and packages of all sizes and shapes."  
  
"But no one item for any length of time, I should think. Suppose the florist had a order for several bouquets, to be delivered to a certain address on a certain day."  
  
"Well, of course perishables such as flowers would be delivered the same day, but there would also be parcels sent through the post and such - which would still need to be delivered within a reasonable timeframe."  
  
"So, we just walk in the front door and ask to see whatever has been sitting there for a while?"  
  
I smiled dryly. "A pair of street rats like ourselves? We'd be taken for petty scavengers."  
  
***** An hour later found us inside the storage area of the delivery service, surrounded by other people's gifts, other people's belongings, and with any luck, a stash of other people's jewelry. Though the room was only about fifty feet square, the stacks of boxes and piles of parcels - some of them very bulky - made it difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction.  
  
I had had to pick the lock to the back door, of course, after an attempt to gain entry to this same room via the front door failed as miserably as I had anticipated (indeed, I would likely not have tried it at all had Miss Cartwright not insisted) and we were ejected bodily. Miss Cartwright landed badly, scraping the heels of her hands on the pavement; the gesture she offered the closed front door, though very American, fit her current role as a mute street urchin, so I had no reason to chastise her for the unladylike quality of it, though I did wonder silently where she had learned such a thing as I helped her to her feet.  
  
It was impossible to determine the most likely starting-place in our search - which by necessity would have to be made quietly and cautiously, to avoid alerting employees in adjacent rooms - so we each picked a row and worked our way through the chaos. It was a tedious process, and I estimate we must have checked a hundred bundles apiece before our respective searches converged upon a wardrobe, constructed of mahogany, elegantly carved, and beautifully finished, standing sentinel against the wall opposite the rear door, with a few parcels piled up against it on either side. Miss Cartwright ran a hand along the top edge of the wardrobe.  
  
"This has been here for a while," she murmured, looking at her dusty fingertips, "Now who would just abandon a beautiful piece of furniture like that?"  
  
"Who indeed?" I asked, matching her ironic tone and opening the wardrobe doors. The neglected hinge of the left-hand door screamed horribly in protest.  
  
It was empty - but we had no time to be disappointed, as it was at that moment that we heard voices and footfalls approaching, no doubt alerted by the noisy hinge. There was only one place to hide. I piled myself and Miss Cartwright into the wardrobe as quietly as I could - which necessitated clamping my hand over Miss Cartwright's mouth lest she try to scream in surprise - and shut the doors. Just then the door to the storeroom opened to admit - judging by the footfalls - three men, one of them heavier than the other two and another walking with a slight limp.  
  
I strained my ears to hear any conversation between the three men that might help in our search for the stolen jewelry, but all I was able to hear was Miss Cartwright's breathing, which was slightly shaky with fear or surprise. I held my own breath, hoping that those outside would not hear us in our hiding-place, only relaxing even marginally once I heard the footfalls heading towards the door. Miss Cartwright reminded me of her presence by biting my hand, compelling me to jerk it away from her mouth. It was impossible to read her expression in the pitch-blackness within the wardrobe, but her next remark indicated that at least she was taking the whole situation with good humour.  
  
"Well," she said sardonically in the barest whisper from somewhere adjacent to my left shoulder, "This is cosy, isn't it?" 'Cosy' was not the word I would have used. I had chosen the wardrobe in a split-second decision, basing my choice upon the knowledge that an average wardrobe is three feet deep, to accommodate the shoulders of the garments hung within. It seemed I had overestimated the depth of this particular specimen by about a foot, causing the two of us to be wedged together face- to-face, closer than we really had any right to be outside the boundaries of Holy Matrimony, with little room to breathe, and certainly no space left over for comfort or even politeness. Moreover, the inside catch of the door was digging into the small of my back, and there was no courteous way to relieve the resulting discomfort.  
  
"It was the best I could do on such short notice, Miss Cartwright," I replied stiffly.  
  
She chuckled softly in the darkness. "I think, considering the situation, that you have earned the privilege of calling me by my Christian name."  
  
The wardrobe abruptly felt very stuffy. "Very well... Emily."  
  
"May I call you Sherlock?"  
  
"You may not," I said, a bit sharply I fear; I had my comfort zones, after all.  
  
"Very well," she acquiesced, sounding a shade disappointed. This was no concern of mine, of course; my role here was to find out the culprit in the robbery, not succumb to her whims.  
  
I heard the floor creak outside a bare heartbeat before the wardrobe door was flung open from without, causing the two of us to tumble out in an awkward tangle of limbs, with Emily sprawled atop me. I looked up and found that we had landed at the feet of a large man. It took only a matter of moments to recall the description Watson had given of his pickpocket. That, paired with the Irregulars' report, led me to the only logical conclusion - that we were in serious danger.  
  
The man grabbed Emily roughly by the arm and dragged her to her feet. I felt a surge of outrage at this treatment of her, which was not at all tempered by the possibility that her assailant probably didn't even know that it was a woman he was manhandling. I got to my feet even as Emily was kicking him in the shin. He threw her aside like a rag doll, and I seized my opportunity to retaliate.  
  
I was fairly blistering with righteous anger now, and I expect I must have seemed like a madman, attacking someone who outweighed me by a factor of three. We exchanged blows, my sharp pugilism versus his less cultured brawling. I am no action hero, however, like such as one might find in the pulps or some of the more insipid novels nowadays, and I fear I came away the worse for the encounter. Although I am certain I left my mark on him, he also left his share of bruises on me, and in the end he grabbed me by my coat and threw me back against the rear wall of the wardrobe, where I must have struck my head. The last thing I recall with any clarity is a vision of Emily jumping on the man's shoulders and scratching at his face.  
  
***** End Part 11. 


	12. The Final Stretch

Disclaimer: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
I awoke some time later with a curse, having until that moment been in the grip of a nightmare about horrid little imps jabbing me with pitchforks. The reality wasn't much different - someone was probing my bruised sides for broken ribs. I groaned.  
  
"You know," Emily said from somewhere above me, "For all your great intellect, you can be such an idiot sometimes."  
  
I opened my eyes (the right-hand one felt a bit puffy and would probably be swollen shut by that evening) and looked over at her. It was ill-lit where we were, but I could see her well enough; Watson has commented on my apparent ability to see in the dark - it is merely a matter of training the senses. She knelt by my side in her shirtsleeves (the coat was probably the bundle I felt rolled up behind my head) and though she appeared to know what she was doing - I had learned at least that much from getting patched up by Watson - her bedside manner left a lot to be desired. She had opened my own coat, and I felt her slender fingers probing my ribs, managing to find every single bruise with admirable expertise.  
  
"I wouldn't have taken you for the nurturing sort," I murmured.  
  
"I'm not," she replied immediately.  
  
"I can tell," I shot back.  
  
"But one learns a lot when one lives with five male cousins."  
  
"When you lived in America."  
  
There wasn't even a flicker of surprise; this was no perpetually surprised Dr. Watson. "My Aunt Clarissa - my mother's sister, I think she was - was constantly having to patch them up, and enlisted my help on more than one occasion." She smiled. "Of course I got my share of medical aid as well, since my cousins all tended to treat me like one of the lads. Of course, that sort of got awkward when I got older."  
  
"I expect so." I paused diplomatically. "So what was this about me being an idiot?"  
  
She paused in her examination and leaned over me like a vampire preparing to feed, or else like a guardian angel - I couldn't decide which it was just then.  
  
"You attacked a man twice your size," she said.  
  
"I promised your father I'd keep you safe," I replied coolly, "And I intend to do just that."  
  
"There *is* a fine line between chivalry and stupidity, you know."  
  
"I have yet to find it."  
  
"Right." She smirked and settled back on her heels. I grunted as she probed the last few ribs on each side.  
  
"And what of you?" I asked, to keep my mind off the aching, "What would you call a young woman jumping on the shoulders of a man easily four times her size?"  
  
"I call it being scared."  
  
"You have an odd way of showing fear."  
  
"I was afraid he'd killed you," she said, with a note of concern in her voice, "As it is I'm surprised nothing was broken."  
  
There was a long pause as I mulled over this statement.  
  
"I have had worse beatings and as you can see I survived them well enough. What of you?" I asked, "Are you hurt at all?"  
  
"A few bumps and bruises," she replied, "Probably a split lip. And I lost the tips of two fingernails."  
  
"My condolences."  
  
"Don't be sorry. I left them in that grizzly bear's face."  
  
"Capital. Now we'll be able to prove that he at least assaulted us." I sat up, ignoring my protesting ribs as I rebuttoned my coat.  
  
"But what about the stolen jewelry?"  
  
"I think I have a theory about that as well." I stood up, helped Emily to her feet (though according to her report she was capable to taking care of herself) and glanced around at what appeared to be a basement. "Now... how long have we been down here?"  
  
"Search me. I woke up about ten minutes before you did."  
  
"Very well. Next question - are we locked in, and if so, how?"  
  
With my mind once again occupied with a puzzle, my injuries seemed to fade into the background, and I mounted the cellar steps easily and tried the door. It was, of course, locked - I hadn't expected any different. It was a relatively simple lock, I noted as I peered through the keyhole, and the door opened into a dingy corridor, one which I had noticed from our initial excursion through the front door of the establishment. I turned back to Emily.  
  
"Third question: Have you a hairpin I might borrow?"  
  
She snorted. "Of course I do. What proper lady would be caught without one?"  
  
I took the proffered tool and set to work on the lock.  
  
"So what do you plan to do if he's still up there?" she asked as the lock clicked a the door drifted open. I didn't need to ask who *he* was.  
  
"I don't believe he *is* up here still," I said casually as I pushed the door open the rest of the way and looked around just in case I was wrong, "Had you been listening, you would have noticed the lack of heavy footfalls above us which would have indicated a man of his scale moving about."  
  
She followed me up the cellar stairs. "Well, the last time I had any sort of opportunity to listen for his footfalls I was jammed in a closet with you, if you recall. And even then he still managed to sneak up on us."  
  
"That was not for our benefit," I replied, "It was to prevent his co- workers from hearing him."  
  
"So... he wasn't looking for us when he opened the wardrobe?"  
  
"He would have had no reason to look in there, unless he feared for the safekeeping of something within."  
  
She emerged into the gaslight of the ground floor. She had, as she'd indicated, not emerged from the fight unscathed. I winced slightly when I saw the bruises on her chin and over her eye, and the split lip which had by this time stopped bleeding and clotted over, though it was starting to swell.  
  
"That bad, huh?" she asked, noticing my expression.  
  
"Your father is going to kill me," I said, only half-kidding.  
  
"I'll deal with my father. For now, I believe you were saying something important about the wardrobe."  
  
"Yes... you no doubt noticed that the interior of the wardrobe was rather cramped - it was shallower than most wardrobes," I amended hastily, turning towards where I estimated the storeroom was from here before she could see my expression..  
  
"Well, I don't really know if two people can ordinarily fit into an otherwise empty wardrobe," she replied dryly. "Most wardrobes are built to a certain depth," I explained, before the train of thought could get any more awkward, "In order to accommodate the shoulders of the garments. Three feet is average. I estimate that the wardrobe in the storeroom was closer to two feet in depth. Now, what does that suggest to you?"  
  
"A false back," she replied after a thoughtful pause.  
  
"Precisely. And between that false back and the true back is where I expect we shall find the stash of stolen jewelry."  
  
By this time we had arrived back at the wardrobe. She immediately reached for the left-hand door, but paused half-way and instead opened the right- hand door.  
  
"Good," I said, "You remembered the squeaky hinge."  
  
"It *does* make sense," she replied, "If the man is right-handed he would naturally use the right-hand door, while the left hinge rusts from disuse. Until, that is, you threw both doors open last time."  
  
I had the good grace to look embarrassed.  
  
"Ah!" she said suddenly, "I was wondering where I'd dropped my stick." She retrieved the fox-headed walking-stick from the floor of the wardrobe, where it likely had fallen when we had been discovered, and handed it to me. She leant back into the wardrobe, this time to probe the rear wall, which was decorated with two rows of large recessed squares. One of these shifted slightly under her hand, and she glanced at me over her shoulder to see if I'd noticed. I nodded in satisfaction.  
  
She shifted the panel aside, and it slid on well-greased runners into the false back. There, in a cubicle that measured a foot in each direction, a small cardboard box lurked. Emily took the box out and opened it. As I had expected, it was partway filled with jewelry, and her eyes lit up, but then clouded again as she noticed something amiss.  
  
"Something wrong?" I asked, already fairly sure of what the answer would be.  
  
"Well," she said slowly, "There must be loot from two or three burglaries in here... and I think I found the matching necklace and earrings for that bracelet you showed me..."  
  
"But?" I prompted.  
  
"Nothing in here is mine."  
  
*****  
  
I placed the lid back on the box and took it from Emily's hands as I returned her stick to her. "You don't look the least bit surprised," she accused.  
  
"I'm not," I confirmed as I placed the box back in its hiding-place, to be discovered later by Scotland Yard, "This fits in with the theory I've been forming of the burglary."  
  
"What theory is that?" I could understand that she was upset; to the untrained investigator, this discovery had to feel like finding an empty hole at the place on a treasure map where a fortune was supposed to be.  
  
"My theory," I said gently, "Is that your jewelry is still in your house."  
  
"WHAT!" The word fairly exploded from her mouth and for a few moments I thought she might leap at me as she had the man I'd fought. To prevent this, I gently seized her by the shoulders.  
  
"Everything shall be explained in due time," I told her quietly, "Right now we need to determine how long Leopold will have to delay his upcoming visitors."  
  
"What--?" she began, but I was already out the door in search of one of the Irregulars, moving at such a pace that she had to run to keep up with me.  
  
As for myself, I was like a bloodhound who senses his quarry is near, and Emily's discomfort (and my own, for that matter) was reduced to a minor issue. Time was of the essence.  
  
By the time I heard Emily catching up with me, I had found one of my scouts, who reported that the man had set off in a cab towards the decorators', about forty minutes ago. I sent the lad sprinting off towards Scotland Yard with a message to Lestrade to have three men meet us at the Cartwright Estate. All but a very few of the Irregulars could neither read nor write, and anyway I didn't wish to waste any time with paper and a pencil, but I had trained them well to retain a verbal message and repeat it to its intended recipient.  
  
"Forty minutes," I said, thinking aloud, "From here to the decorators' is about twenty minutes, and from there to the Cartwright Estate is forty minutes. If we secure a cab quickly, we may get there in time to intercept them. Come, Emily!" And with that I grabbed her by the arm and half led, half-dragged her to the street-corner.  
  
It took us an infuriating fifteen minutes to find a cab who would take us, and even then I had to toss him a sovereign in advance (a rather surprising donation from such a slovenly-looking character as myself, no doubt). I promised to double it if he got us to our destination as quickly as possible. During that interval it appeared that Emily's adrenaline rush had worn off; during the cab ride she leaned against my shoulder as if she was dozing off, though later she denied doing any such thing. The tempest was subsiding, it seemed, or else she was saving her energy for the final confrontation we both knew had to lie back at the Cartwright Estate.  
  
Either way, I felt certain that the burglars would rue the day they had set their sights upon the Cartwright Estate. *****  
  
End Part 12. 


	13. Endgame or, Out of the Frying Pan

Disclaimer: See Part One.  
  
Author's note: I know you're all itching to hear Holmes' conclusions on this case and to see justice served - so here it is!  
  
*****  
  
There was already another cab waiting at the front of the estate by the time we pulled up. I had given Leopold explicit instructions before we'd left to detain anyone who came to the estate and tried to take away any of the decorations, particularly the flower arrangements, until we'd returned. When the butler greeted us at the door, the look of immense relief was evident on his face.  
  
"Mr Holmes... Miss Emily," he said stoically, "You will find in the sitting room two people with whom I expect you will wish to speak. To be honest, sir, I was starting to wonder how much longer you'd be." He stopped suddenly, and glanced at Emily "Miss Emily, what has happened to you?"  
  
"Nothing to worry about, Leopold," she replied with as much of a smile as her swollen lip would allow, "Mr Holmes and I ran into a few difficulties during out investigation."  
  
"It looks as though you were in a fight!"  
  
"We were," she summarised, "Now, I'm sure we don't want to keep our guests waiting, do we, Leopold?"  
  
"Er. No, Miss Emily," said Leopold, caught slightly off-balance by Emily's matter-of-fact response, "Follow me, please."  
  
"And where is Mr Cartwright?" I asked, "I noticed that the family sedan was not in its accustomed position."  
  
Leopold glanced at me mildly; countless years of training allowed the butler to not even betray his exasperation. "The master is away on an errand - and a good thing, too, if I may be so bold - but I expect him to return at any minute."  
  
I sighed. "I would have preferred that he be there for the confrontation - after all, it is his daughter's jewelry that is at stake - but I suppose it cannot be helped. Lead on."  
  
In the sitting room we found the large deliveryman, and a slender six-year old child with overgrown blonde hair, a shirt two sizes too large for him, and an expression of naive innocence upon his face. They both looked up as we entered, and immediately the man's face drew into a frown as he recognised us. It appeared that my last vision of Emily clawing at his face from behind was genuine, as on his left cheek were three parallel scratches, which would have appeared to be nail gouges even had the marks made by the broken nails not been in evidence. "Good afternoon," I said to them in my usual tone, which I expect sounded completely at odds with my costume, "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this young lady is Miss Emily Cartwright - the woman whose jewelry you took."  
  
The man flinched violently at my accusation, and the boy cowered close to him.  
  
"Now," I continued, "Would you like to explain how it was done, or shall I? One way or another, it makes no difference to me. But to start, I would like to know your names. It makes things so much easier during conversation."  
  
"My name is Arthur McKinley," the man said in a resigned tone, "and this is my son Adam - but I swear to you, we don't know anything about any burglary!"  
  
I saw Emily's eyes flashing with something dangerous during this denial, and I placed a warning hand on her shoulder.  
  
"Shall I refresh your memory then?" I asked in placid rhetoric, "Of course, you may feel free to correct me if I misstep. You may recall, four days ago, acquiring a gold pocket-watch from a stout man with a moustache. In the process of picking his pocket you left behind a diamond bracelet, for reasons which I'm certain you will supply. The following evening, Miss Cartwright here was having her debutante ball, for which her father had hired four service companies - a florist, a caterer, a decorator, and a delivery service to bring it all in. You work for the delivery service, and your son is the apprentice to one of the decorators.  
  
"Whether by coincidence or design, those specific companies - yours and his - were hired. I expect this same combination may be found at the sites of the other burglaries - but I digress. During some preliminary designing of the ball, you were both given ample opportunity to scout out the estate, during which you learned on the dense covering of ivy at the rear face of the house. While the preparations were being made for the ball that evening, young Adam indicated to one of the maids that he needed to use the lavatory. He was taken to the lavatory, from which he squeezed through the window - which, to judge by your frame, young Adam, would not be much of a chore - and climbed up to the window of Miss Cartwright's bedroom, using the ivy like a ladder. A few fibers from his clothing caught on the rough wood of the window-frame, and I should not be surprised if his had gotten a splinter or two during the process." I took note of the way the boy presently tucked his hands under the folds of his sleeves.  
  
"As the wind during the rainstorm was coming from the west that night, the same direction the house faces, the boy did not get wet during his climb, nor would anyone expect him to have left any puddles on the sill or the in the room inside. Once he got to the sill, though, he was forced to wait, as Mrs Weaver was still inside the room, finishing laying out Miss Cartwright's clothing and jewelry for the ball. I cannot be certain if Miss Cartwright herself was still there, but the matter is immaterial, as she would have been leaving shortly to have her bath.  
  
"It is difficult enough to notice through the sheer curtains a man-sized figure in the window during the daytime when one is not expecting one, let alone a small child in the evening. Thus Adam had an ideal opportunity to see where the key to the jewelry-box would be hidden after Mrs Weaver finished selecting the jewelry for the ball. Though the window had been closed to keep out the rain, I do not think it was locked, as the sash and the latch showed no signs of tampering. So, all the boy had to do was open the window and climb inside. He got the key from its hiding-place and opened the jewelry-box. He had on him the pocket-watch I mentioned earlier, which he left in exchange for the jewelry. Again, I trust you will supply the motive for this curious detail. He filled his pockets with the jewelry, left the watch, and climbed out the way he had come, climbing back down the ivy and back through the window to the lavatory. There he rejoined the maid, who took him back down to the main hall with an airtight alibi." By this point the two on the sofa could see that there was no use in any further denials.  
  
"It was a fair trade," said McKinley, "I always left something behind to pay for it, and I taught my boy to do the same. It isn't stealing if you leave something for it."  
  
"A diamond bracelet for a gold watch?" Emily asked sharply, "A gold watch for a boxful of jewelry?"  
  
"Would you have felt better if I hadn't left anything at all?" McKinley demanded, starting to get to his feet.  
  
"Sir! Madam! Settle down!" I entreated the both of them, "I said *sit down,* Mr. McKinley. Your misplaced sense of barter caused an innocent man to be accused of your crime, and I certainly hope your son learns a better trade than burglary in the future."  
  
"Excuse me, sir," Leopold interrupted, "Once the theft was discovered we searched everyone and didn't find the jewelry."  
  
"There is a very good reason for that," I replied, a shade annoyed at the interruption, "Once the theft was discovered, I expect it was difficult to maintain order in the main hall."  
  
"Well, it was a bit chaotic - I couldn't really see for certain, since I was by the door, keeping track of who had come who was on the list, and then keeping the early-comers distinct from the late-comers."  
  
"So nobody would have noticed a small boy stashing away the jewelry somewhere in the crowded main hall, so that he and his father could retrieve it later."  
  
There was a long silence in the sitting room. I always enjoyed moments like this. Finally Emily spoke:  
  
"Well, where is it, then?" she said, slightly spoiling the moment.  
  
"Follow me, all of you. Leopold, I believe those are three officers of the law ringing the bell, do let them in and have them join us in the main hall."  
  
Once my audience - Emily, the suspects, the police, and the butler - were gathered in the main hall, I strolled over to the dining-table and peered discreetly into the large plaster bowl which contained the centrepiece of orchids. The water had mostly evaporated and the flowers were starting to wilt, but otherwise the contents were intact.  
  
To the policemen, I said: "You came just in time. I was about to show Miss Cartwright where the burglars hid her jewelry."  
  
With a sudden flourish I snatched up the bowl of flowers and dropped it on the parquet floor at my feet, where it smashed into fragments. The flowers exploded away from the centre of impact and scattered on the floor, leaving Miss Cartwright's jewelry in plain view.  
  
The report had also summoned the attention of one more player in the story, whose carriage I had heard pulling up shortly after that of the police, and who now urgently elbowed and jostled his way to the front. Mr Cartwright looked at my battered face, then at Emily's, and he turned an interesting shade of crimson as he came to a perfectly understandable but in this case incorrect conclusion. I offered him a tight-lipped smile and prepared to run.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 13. 


	14. Epilogue  Compensation or, Into the Fire

Disclaimer: See Part One.  
  
Author's note: Here it is - the final chapter! Hopefully this will answer the last few questions some of you have (mainly regarding the romantic subgenre). Enjoy, and THANK YOU for all your reviews!  
  
*****  
  
Mr Cartwright did not, of course, kill me that day; my impending death was warded off by the three police officers catching hold of Mr Cartwright and wrestling him back into the sitting room while Emily smuggled me out the back door. I asked her to fill in the police on the finer points of our investigation in my absence, kissed her hand in farewell, and hurried around to the front yard in time to intercept McKinley and son as they tried to make good their escape while the police were otherwise busy. I tripped McKinley with my stick as he ran towards one of the cabs, knocking him out cold on the walk, and made my own escape in the same vehicle.  
  
Watson was cleared of all charges and released that night, though his watch was kept as evidence in the trial; all the same he was grateful to return to our rooms on Baker Street. It was, of course, comforting to me to have my old friend back, though I had pushed my concerns to the back of my mind during the investigation.  
  
It was not until two weeks later that I received any compensation for this case. I was sitting in my favourite wicker chair after breakfast, engaged in an activity that Watson called napping but which I preferred to think of as meditating, when Mrs. Hudson brought up the late morning post. As Watson flipped through the various bills and letters of entreaty, a name caught my attention.  
  
"What was that last one, Watson?" I asked, not opening my eyes just yet.  
  
"It appears to be an invitation, addressed to both of us."  
  
"From whom?"  
  
"A Mr Edmund Cartwright."  
  
I smiled to myself. "Open it, please. This may prove interesting."  
  
I heard him open the invitation - it sounded like expensive stationary, possibly even parchment. "'You are cordially invited to attend a soiree at the Cartwright Estate to honour Miss Emily Cartwright,'" he read, "Good heavens, Holmes! It doesn't say it directly, but I think we've been invited to his daughter's debutante tonight!"  
  
"Small wonder," I remarked, "considering her first one was ruined by a burglary - the one that led to your being arrested, you may recall."  
  
"Ah, yes. How could I forget? So do you plan to go?" he asked dubiously. He knew me well enough that I was not a social creature.  
  
"You have frequently told me that I need to get out more. I expect this would be an ideal opportunity to do so."  
  
"Holmes, are you feeling all right?"  
  
"Never better. Why do you ask?"  
  
He sighed. "You've been a bit out of sorts lately... and I've never seen you perk up so much at the idea of a social gathering."  
  
"I did not perk," I growled, a bit defensively.  
  
"I thought you did."  
  
"Then you were mistaken."  
  
"Very well, Holmes," he resigned, though there was a note of something slightly false in his voice.  
  
*****  
  
We arrived at the soiree at precisely eight o'clock that evening, dressed in our evening clothes. I acknowledged Leopold with a nod as our cloaks and hats were taken by the attendant. He glanced at my boutonniere - a fresh orchid - with a raised eyebrow but made no comment. The flower had been an absolute pain to find, but I thought it would be a nice touch.  
  
I surmised that the only reason we had been invited was at Emily's urging, considering her father's attitude towards me when I'd left at the close of the investigation. As was my habit when I didn't expect to be otherwise intellectually stimulated by a situation, I started picking out people at random and making deductions about them.  
  
One gentleman, for example, suffered from a slight inflammation in the left shoulder, to judge by the way he carried that arm close to his body and used his non-dominant right hand to gesture and such. Another middle-aged gentleman was having a falling-out with his wife, who was now neglecting such minor services as informing her husband that he missed a spot shaving... just there, in the hollow of his jaw. And there...  
  
I stopped short and inhaled sharply when I reached the next subject of observation. I nudged Watson with my elbow.  
  
"Tell me, Watson," I said to him, "What do you deduce about the young lady in the blue dress?"  
  
Watson peered at her as discreetly as he could, trying not to look like he was staring.  
  
"Well," he said finally, "Her husband is very well-off, if she can afford such a nice dress. French, to judge by the neckline."  
  
"Yes, I believe such decolletage, as they call it, is a recent import amongst the fashionable. Why do you say she is married?"  
  
"Well, she's in her twenties, it looks like. And she's a very attractive young woman. I imagine she was married fairly early on."  
  
"Yes, but I don't see a ring of any sort."  
  
"By Jove, you're right," he said as he looked closer, "I wonder why she hasn't married?"  
  
We watched in silence as a young man approached her and attempted to engage her in conversation. During their brief encounter, he showed her something that sparkled - probably an offering of jewelry - but she brushed him off with an abrupt wave of one gloved hand and a few sharp words and walked away.  
  
"Well," Watson concluded, "That answers that. She seems like quite a heart- breaker, if this is a regular occurrence."  
  
"Oh, I don't know about that," I said whimsically, "You can ask her if you like, though. She's coming this way."  
  
Watson froze in mortification as Miss Emily Cartwright strolled towards the two of us. Blue quite suited her, I thought, as did the smile and the slight blush when she noticed the orchid.  
  
"Good evening, Miss Cartwright," I said, kissing her proffered hand.  
  
"Good evening, Holmes - and I said before that you could call me Emily."  
  
I shot a quick glance at Watson, who was smirking.  
  
"Perhaps you would like to introduce your friend?" Emily prompted, saving me from an explanation I didn't wish to provide just then.  
  
"Yes, of course. Miss Cartwright, may I present to you my friend Dr John Watson. Watson, this is Miss Emily Cartwright, who aided the investigation in your absence."  
  
"Charmed," Emily said as she and Watson clasped hands.  
  
"I expect Holmes must have given you quite a run for your money," said Watson.  
  
"Not as much as you might think," she smiled, "I don't need to be cushioned from a rousing adventure like that. And I certainly don't need to be patronised by the well-meaning." Her manner was pleasant enough, but I heard a note of warning in her words that reminded me of something she'd said earlier.  
  
"Is that what happened to Michael?" I asked, and had the satisfaction of seeing her look surprised by my recall.  
  
"No," she finally said, "Michael was at the last gathering. He'd had a bit too much to drink and he tried to corner me and put his hands where they had no business being. So I dislocated his knee."  
  
Had Watson been taking at drink at that moment, I expect he would have sprayed it over whomever was standing nearby, such was his expression.  
  
"A scream of protest probably would have sufficed," I said wryly.  
  
"Well, of *course* I screamed," she said, "but by that point so did he."  
  
"It's the strangest coincidence," Watson finally said, "Do you know that when I was out that night I treated a young man with that exact injury? I was passing by in a cab and I saw two men carrying him to another carriage. Of course my physician's Oath dictated that I had to help where I could, so I jumped out to see what was the matter. He was rather incoherent, though, and he smelled of alcohol."  
  
"That couldn't be why you were so vague about it," I remarked.  
  
"No," Emily concurred, "It was probably the hatpin."  
  
Watson looked at her and turned scarlet. "Yes... well, that was an operation I felt better suited to a proper hospital," he said, choosing his words with care, "Considering its location."  
  
Even a man without my powers of deduction could have combined that statement with the respective expressions on Watson's and Emily's faces and come up with an accurate conclusion. My eyes watered slightly.  
  
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Dr Watson," Emily said then, "But Holmes and I have a few things to discuss about a few details of the case. If you will excuse us?"  
  
"I wouldn't dream of detaining you," said Watson, sounding like he meant every word and looking a bit fearful for my safety. I offered him a reassuring glance and allowed Emily to lead me away.  
  
"I don't wish to occupy you for long," I said as we crossed the dance floor, "I imagine your dance card is quite full."  
  
She smiled. "Nonsense. This is business, not social, right?" "Of course," I said, mainly for my own sake, "So, what happened after I left so abruptly?"  
  
"Well, after the policemen got my father calmed down, they realised their birds had flown - but oddly enough, somebody had winged them coming down the front walk. It took all three of them to pick up Mr McKinley and carry him back in. I explained what had happened in the delivery office, both the fight with McKinley and also the location of the stash of jewelry. After they checked out our story, they arrested McKinley for the burglaries, and at present they're trying to figure out what jewelry came from whom. You can expect that *that* will take a while."  
  
"From what I learned of the families, I expect no less," I replied.  
  
"I do have one question, though... how did you know where the jewelry was? You seemed to know that whole day we were scouting about. I could have hit you when you finally told me."  
  
I smiled. "Until we found the cardboard box, it was merely a theory that your belongings would not be with the rest. You see, according to the eyewitness accounts from Leopold and yourself, the thieves had no opportunity to dispose of the jewelry someplace outside, but they didn't have it on them by the time they were searched. Thus, they hid the jewelry somewhere within the house. Now young Adam was in the presence of the maid from the time he left the lavatory to the time he returned to the hall, and I'm certain she would have seen any furtive activity in the meantime. The only logical conclusion was that the jewelry was hidden within the main hall. When you have eliminated the impossible--"  
  
"Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," she finished for me.  
  
"Very good. And of course, the best hiding-place is one which you expect to take away with you in the future."  
  
"So... what made you choose the centrepiece?"  
  
"You might have noticed, Emily, that I took care to check the bowl before my dramatic unveiling. I would have looked quite foolish had I blindly chosen the wrong vessel - not to mention the fact that your father would have chased me out before I could find the correct one."  
  
She laughed. "True enough. And of course you always make sure to do your research." She tapped the orchid in my lapel. "That was a nice touch." She held her gaze for a few moments longer, then looked away pensively. "I'm glad you could make it to the soiree," she said quietly, "I knew you'd want to hear how everything turned out... and you have no idea how much arm- twisting it took to get my father to let you back here."  
  
I gritted my teeth. This was starting to get awkward. I put my forefinger under her chin and tilted her head up so I could see her face. I was planning only to assess how her injuries from the fight had healed, but in the process I noticed for the first time the soft contours of her face, the fullness of her mouth, the way a stubborn wisp of hair that had escaped the pins trailed down at her left temple and over her cheekbone, and the precise shade of fathomless cerulean blue found in her eyes.  
  
I hadn't noticed, and I always prided myself on noticing details. A dozen thoughts raced through my mind.  
  
The one that came out was: "I see your split lip has healed nicely."  
  
Argh.  
  
She smiled, acknowledging the attempt. "Did your eye swell too badly? It still looks a shade puffy."  
  
"I've had worse injuries than a blackened eye."  
  
There was an awkward pause.  
  
"Well," Emily finally said, "Is this discussion social yet, or is it still business?"  
  
"It seems to have gone in its own direction," I replied stoically, "Leaving us with no choice but to follow." I stepped back and offered her my hand with a bow. "May I have the honour of this dance?"  
  
She smiled and took my hand.  
  
Even now I can't say for certain how long we danced. Suddenly it was 11.30 and Watson was at my elbow.  
  
"Holmes! I've been looking all over for you!"  
  
I blinked and looked over at him, still quite aware of the young woman in my arms. I hurriedly stepped back to a more discreet distance from her.  
  
"It's getting late," Watson continued, "And I'm really quite worried about you."  
  
"Worried?" I echoed, "Why?"  
  
He merely glanced significantly over at Emily. I frowned.  
  
"Watson," I said, "I can assure you that there isn't the least thing wrong with me that wasn't already there two weeks ago - and all that has healed, by your own account."  
  
"Holmes--"  
  
"But of course if you wish to go, we shall go." I was being peevish, I knew.  
  
"Holmes." This was from Emily. I looked over at her. "You're not going to leave before you receive your fee, are you? For services rendered?"  
  
My brain scrambled for a few moments before I remembered what she was talking about. "Ah, yes. For getting your jewelry back. Of course."  
  
Emily flagged down Leopold, who had in an inside pocket an envelope, which she took from him and handed to me. I opened it and looked at the cheque inside, then raised my eyebrows at the amount.  
  
"That's from my father," Emily explained, "though I think he was just glad to get you out of the house."  
  
"He's very generous," I said, tucking the cheque into my breast pocket.  
  
"The cheque is only part of the fee, though," she said, "This part is from me."  
  
Before I could ask, she gently bent my head down with one gloved hand and kissed me softly on the corner of the mouth.  
  
"Good night, Mr Sherlock Holmes," she murmured close to my ear as her hand brushed down my cheek, then she stepped back, inclined her head to Watson, then turned and vanished into the crowd.  
  
Watson looked at me with newfound respect. "Holmes, you devil!" he smirked.  
  
I cleared my throat. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," I lied.  
  
"No?" he asked, "Then why are you blushing?"  
  
I stopped short and glared at him. "I am doing no such thing, Watson," I snarled, "And you know it."  
  
He started laughing as I stalked away to the coat check.  
  
*****  
  
Author's note: Please let me know how I did on the ballroom scene - I was trying really hard to stay away from anything fluffy.  
  
Finis. 


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